Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,To follow the noble vocation;Your thrifty old mother has scarce such anotherTo sit in that honoured station.I’ve little to say, but only to pray,As praying’s the ton of your fashion;A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse‘Tis seldom her favourite passion.

Ye powers who preside o’er the wind, and the tide,Who marked each element’s border;Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,Whose sovereign statute is order:–Within this dear mansion, may wayward ContentionOr withered Envy ne’er enter;May secrecy round be the mystical bound,And brotherly Love be the centre!